Words and Deeds
by St-Jimmy1669
Summary: It's the new year. House has taken to recording his life, from day to day, just to see if he can stick with it. And it'll help Wilson, if he ever really goes through with it.


There's got to be some way of ending this. I'm going mad. I can't work. I can't sleep. I can't breathe. The smallest of movements sends numb white noise screaming through every nerve in my body. And I know I handled it the last time, but I don't think I can take it any more. That's why I'm keeping away from the hospital. They all recognise me when I look weak, and they'll be watching closer than ever, to note every tiny irregularity. They've only ever seen me looking stronger; I'm not going to show them anything different now.

It's stupid, I know. Even bothering to write any of this down is pointless: I'm not exactly writing for an audience. No-one's ever going to see it – God knows, _I'll _never read this crap again. It's just a useless waste of trees and in and effort and time that could be spent doing … fun things. But then, at least I can write whatever my heart desires. I can profess a long-time enamourment with all things soft and fluffy. Or sadomsochism. Though I doubt that the latter would surprise my flock as much as the cute and cuddly thing. Having said that, neither of these particularly appeal to me, so I think I'll shut up now and stop talking bollocks.

The real reason I'm writing is because it expends energy without utilisation of gross motor functions, which, it must be said, aren't exactly up to par at the moment. And besides, my options are few: writing this damn thing, or – no, I swore I wouldn't go there. I made that promise to myself, after watching what James went through… has been through…is going through…

It's not as if I can help him, anyway. If I was a nicer human being, I'd have no hesitation in selflessly coming to his rescue like the knight on a white charger that people would like to imagine I was. But the fact is, I'm a prick and will remain that way forevermore, and, as such, have no interest in anyone outside of myself. Well, _obviously_. I couldn't give a toss about James: that must be it. That's what they all seem content to believe, anyway. Yes, maybe I could change that, but it's easier said than done. I haven't a clue _how _to. People preach at me wherever I am, How do they sodding know what it's really like to be stuck in this shape ; trapped in this form you can't liberate yourself from?

There is one way, of course. To free yourself, I mean. But we aren't going there. Never.

I should never have done it. I knew I shouldn't when I was considering it, though I vowed I'd not go down that route. But just… the idea of it…

I think very few people can say they've never thought about what it would be like to kill themselves. I mean, sitting there, unable to do anything, your mind wanders, and you long for jut an inkling of what it feels like. And that's fine. It doesn't get scary until the thought dominates you: it's all you can think; all you can feel. The stench assails you, thick and cloying. It's the little pinpricks on your forearms, and the cold, guilty finger on your spine.

And you think 'well, one measly cut can't hurt, right?' And it doesn't, so you do it again, and again. Except in reality, it hurts. It bloody hurts. It's so excruciating, you no longer know if you're going to live or die.

I don't know any stupid, hormonal, self-obsessed teenager who wouldn't say the same thing. _I, _on the other hand…

Cutting releases endorphins, and endorphins relieve pain. Pain relief is good. Ergo, cutting relieves pain. _Ergo_ cutting is good.

That's the extent of it.

James doesn't have any physical pain to relieve, so he must be one of these people who experiences 'overwhelming psychological pain'. Well, good luck to him.

Last night was an absolute fiasco. I knew what I was doing; the endorphins kicked in; I bandaged my arm. Nice and clinical. Nice and regimented. But then, who should come visiting at that ungodly hour but bloody Cameron. And you don't need one of these overrated psychology degrees to guess at the conclusions she's going to jump to.

"Oh, my God, I've just discovered my boss has emotion! The poor, tortures, _damaged _soul! Let me clean his wounds with specially formulated No More Tears disinfectant, and soothe his bleeding heart!"

Bloody _Hell_.

It's the endorphins. And I'd rather die than admit it, but they're better than sex (certainly, with the energy I have at present). Better than pills, in some ways. With the Vicodin, there's just not the same sense of yourself; of your own mortality. Actually, I'm relieved to have found an analgesic that doesn't involve having to spend the majority of the day out of my head, or being required to exercise any major muscle groups.

If I know Cameron, she's going to confide in Cuddy the first chance she gets about my 'psychological downfall'. She doesn't know about James, either. (I'm the only one who does. How privileged am I?). So she's going to tell him.

I think I'd rather she didn't, though.

Hark at the misanthropic prick thinking about how his actions impact on others; caring about how others might feel.

James knows I don't do things irrationally. He knows about endorphins.


End file.
